


Changing thought to belief

by greenripper (OracleGlass)



Category: Leverage
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Het, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OracleGlass/pseuds/greenripper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sophie is feeling reckless. Eliot is just the person to be reckless with, even if he doesn't know it yet.</p><p>Sophie/Eliot, with Nate/Maggie and Hardison/Parker off in the background. For kink_bingo: mind control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing thought to belief

**Author's Note:**

> Posted briefly, and then taken down for some tweaks and reposted.

Sophie is vexed. It's a good word in her mouth; so she says it out loud, although not loudly enough to be heard by Parker. Parker is sitting nearby on the sofa, watching an old movie with her chin resting on her two fists, paying strict attention, so Sophie says it again to herself, and sighs.

It's been five weeks and three days since she and Nate cordially agreed to end whatever romantic death spiral they had been locked into for so long. No, that was lying - she had been the one locked in. Nate had been...interested - one's ego wanted to slip the word "tempted" in there - but ultimately he had proved unwilling to put his cards on the table. And after the whole situation in Chicago with Maggie had happened, Sophie had seen the writing on the wall and elected to bow out gracefully before she was shown the door.

Always know your exit cue.

So Nate was on a leave of absence, trying to rebuild the marriage that had been shattered by death and drink. Sophie was left to wander aimlessly around Boston, talking sternly to herself about being an adult. She had pondered fleeing the scene again, but it felt too much like surrender. So she stayed in Boston, keeping Parker and Hardison out of trouble (god, why did she fall so easily into the role of mother?) and watching Eliot drift in and out like a stray cat who always knew when dinner was being served.

What she really needed, she thought, was utterly debauched wallbanging sex. Something totally reckless, something that would...could she admit it to herself? Something that would bring her confidence back. Sophie scowled to herself, and chewed a cuticle. How the hell could she make this work?

****  
"Eliot, could you please pass me the eggs?"

It was two days after her decision to Move On (or was her decision simpler than that, to Get Laid?) She had worked out a play, a bold solution to her problem. It would require more subtlety than she usually needed to use on the average mark, because this time she'd be carrying it out under the nose of her teammates. Parker had showed a surprising awareness about this particular little grifter trick, and she would have no compunction about blurting out awkward questions at inopportune moments. Parker and Hardison would have to remain in the dark about this little ploy. And as for Eliot, well...he was the mark, so having him notice would definitely spoil the plan.

It began with vanilla, a known aphrodisiac. Embracing the mommy role with slightly grim determination, Sophie was making cookies, filling the house with the scent of warm vanilla and cinnamon. Eliot had come in to rummage through the refrigerator for a snack, and Sophie had drawn him in, bullying him gently to fetch her pans and bowls and finally getting him to help her spoon out dough. Through it all, she had found small moments to touch him, stroking the back of his hand, bumping against him as she turned from pulling cinnamon out of the cupboard, brushing a smudge of flour off his cheek. By the time the pans were in the oven, she was feeling a little out of breath from the contact. His hands were strong and deft, and she kept catching herself staring at them, picturing them doing...

She shook her head, dismissing the fantasy before it had the chance to grow more detailed. If things went as planned, there'd be no need to fantasize.

As for Eliot, his usual faux-grumpiness had eased, and he was in an expansive good mood, allowing Hardison to tease him about something or other and ignoring the fact that Parker was upside down on the sofa, still watching tv. Sophie even managed to get him to laugh twice, which was perhaps not the best plan because it made her stomach do a slow flip each time. She contented herself with grazing the rim of his ear with her fingernails; when he looked up at her, puzzled, she showed him the piece of lint she had palmed. "Dust bunny in your hair. I couldn't stand looking at it anymore."

Later that night, over dinner, Sophie managed to work in the words "scarves," "tied," "bed," and "silky" into general conversation about the Vatican Gambit and whether or not it could be used outside of Italy. Hardison and Parker were arguing furiously about it, with Parker claiming that it had never really been a useful scam while Hardison defended it as a classic. Eliot was listening quietly, the corner of his mouth quirked in a way that Sophie found quite disarming, and without even planning it she had touched him again, brushing the tips of her fingers against his forearm. He looked at her in that intense focused Eliot way, really looked as if she were a problem he was trying to solve or an opponent to take down, and for a moment she thought she would blush like a schoolgirl and give the game away.

Fortunately for her self-control, Hardison and Parker chose that moment to start arguing about something new altogether: a new type of bank vault, and whether or not anybody could hold their breath for ten minutes to crack it given the variables of A) darkness B) a laser tripwire and C) the possibility of knockout gas.

At this point, Sophie decided that what was needed was a glass of white wine. As the argument grew more heated, Eliot vanished out the door and Sophie decided she was growing a headache, and that it was time to go home. She left Parker and Hardison finishing up the cookies, still arguing. No doubt they'd end up by furiously kissing each other on the sofa, and she wished them well, but didn't particularly want to be around to witness it in her current frustrated state.

Her new apartment was about a ten minute walk from the office. There was hardly anything in it - she was still a little wary after the bomb had decimated her old place and somehow she was finding it a little difficult to stamp her own personality onto the new one. A funny thing for a person who spent most of her time being different people - she had always had the knack of making herself at home in places very quickly. But here she was, completely at sea and unable to figure out what color to paint her walls or what rug she wanted for the living room. A hand-painted mirror hung on an exposed brick wall, a large white sofa with embroidered pillows, a small bowl with a delicate peach glaze - these few pieces were all she had been able to do. The rest was just...furniture, as impersonal as a hotel.

She was suddenly very low in spirits. The feeling was familiar - she had fallen prey to it before, after all, in Belarus and Kansas City and Manila, that sense of carefully built walls creaking and threatening to fall. The iron nerve of a con artist frequently had its flip side. Sinking back into the sofa, she tucked her knees up and wondered if this would be a very bad night. Maybe the plan was a bad one. Maybe Eliot had noticed and had decided to ignore it to spare her feelings. Maybe he thought she was vile and repulsive and had no thought of fucking her...nothing she had done today would work if there hadn't already been a little spark to fan into a flame...

She got up from the sofa and went to take a shower, imagining Eliot standing behind her, pressing up against her, touching her everywhere. She toweled off, put on a bathrobe, and went into the kitchen to make a final cup of tea, still half-lost in thinking about him, so when there was a tap at the door and she opened it to see him, looking solid and concerned and so completely fuckable she nearly flung herself at him. Instead, she opened the door wider and gestured for him to come in, not trusting herself to say anything, not entirely sure that she wanted it to be her doing that brought him here. She closed the door and turned to face him.

"Eliot, fancy you coming b-," her sentence was cut off as he stepped forward into her, tilting her mouth to meet his. He was so warm, his tongue was doing something amazing, and all she could do was slide her arms around his neck and hold on for dear life. He half-walked, half-carried her over to the sofa and tumbled her down into it, leaning over her, his eyes dark, and said, "I know what you're doing, and I don't care," and then he kissed her again, biting her lower lip, trailing kisses along her jawline until she whimpered.

Her hands slid up under his t-shirt, then down his back, feeling the bunch and play of muscles under her fingertips. Her breasts felt tight and aching and it was a blessed relief when he undid the belt on her robe, pushing the terrycloth back from her shoulders. "One-handed, bonus points for you, Mr. Spencer," she said in her best Headmistress voice. Eliot didn't bother replying, and instead bent and sucked her left nipple into his mouth. Sophie's poise completely deserted her as she arched backwards, breathless.

"I swear to Christ, Eliot, if you don't fuck me right this second I'm going to die."

"Working on it, sweetheart."

His hands had rucked her robe up around her hips, and he slid his fingertips against the damp skin of her thighs, chuckling against her collarbone as he discovered she wore no panties underneath. He began to tease her, touching her lightly here, there, everywhere until she whimpered in protest and bumped her hips upwards. "Eliot," she said, urgency in her voice.

"Patience, darlin'," he said, and moved his hand lower. She was drenchingly wet, and his fingers slipped easily into her while his thumb found her clit. He stroked into her, once, twice, while she writhed underneath him, her hands clutching his hair. He fumbled at his own fly and she had enough presence of mind to help him, tugging his jeans down and taking his boxer shorts mostly with them. He dug a hand into the pocket before they went too far down his hips, muttering, "I've got a...a...thing, a condom..." and then it was his turn to whimper as she wrapped a hand around his cock, her hands cool on his heated skin. A moment of wrestling with the condom and he was inside her, thrusting deeply while she wrapped her legs around him, hips lifting off the sofa to meet his. She pushed hard against him and he tumbled, taking her to the floor with him, but now she rode above, her eyes gleaming down at him wickedly.

"Did I ever tell you," she said conversationally, "that I've studied belly dancing for a great many years?" Her hips described a figure eight, and Eliot saw the face of God.

Later, spent and sweaty on the floor, Sophie lifted herself onto one elbow and peered down at Eliot, who was lying bonelessly next to her. He was ever so slightly out of breath, which was a victory, given how many men she had seen him beat up without him turning a hair. She slid a fingertip over his lower lip, and said, "I would apologize for the mind games, but I have to confess I'm not at all sorry. Besides, you look like the cat that ate the canary."

Eliot grinned up at her lazily. "My pleasure, honey. Besides which, we're not done. I believe you mentioned something about silk scarves?" Sophie laughed, got to her feet, and dragged him off by the wrist into the bedroom. "I believe I did, at that."


End file.
